im in love without you, finneas

AMSTERDAM,
THE NETHERLANDS.

he is alive.

alive and jumping, bodies in the air, wine is chugged, slipping from the mouths of desolate lovers, spilled on counters, taken from behind the bar. dosed in and bathed in and loved in. these people here, in his house, are slaves to his medicine, slaves to the memory of what he has lost—and he is okay with that. he loves it, in fact, is comforted and happy and glad for it. for he, too, is a slave to wine. a devoted friend, a trusting confidant. he is its willing servant.

he knows he is doomed.

it is a nightly occurrence: his dance with wine. purple and gold robes, lights dim and like the dusk over amsterdam's waters they dance, hand in hand, mouth in mouth. he tastes the squashed grapes, the heavy toxicity upon his tongue, the burn down his throat. and he welcomes it with open arms and legs and eyes—for he is in love with it. that godly drink, that godly thing: it is the only object he managed to seize from olympus' grasp. his head dips back in awe, his mouth stained purple, tinged red with the taste of it.

wine.

oh sweet, divine wine.

how you will be his demise.

ariadne has fleeted. she left in the waters of some morning, his heart shattering, dripping liquid of wine instead of the blood of a mortal. from his eyes tumbles red and white and mixed all the same. they fall into the glasses of leaves, their skin bared willingly in acceptance. he can not breath, his throat is closing. is this grief? he asks himself when the high is over. is this mortality's curse? sober senses tingle through his spine. his mind is no longer a haze. his feet have stopped dancing. the wine glass is empty.

he had not realised.

he feels silly. silly and stupid—a fool, a drunk. he is disgusting; he spits at the sight of his reflection in amsterdamn's waters, cursing it, damning it. why? he asks it, screams and thrashes and punches. why must you damn me, oh waters of life? you shine like starlight, you are cool to the touch, yet my lover left by your hand. and you let her.

why?

he is filled with anger now. anger stemmed from heartbreak, intensified by the wine, triggered by his solemn dance with death. he cries harder, wine draining from his skin. he pales, his breathing more ragged—more frantic and rapid and wavering. he screams and yells and thrashes the water, his grip loose amongst its slippery body. he is sober as he is drunk, he is high on his sadness, low on the air. the wine glass flashes a smile at the sun. it is rising slowly, watching, observing the former god's madness.

his anger suffocates him. wine leaks from his pores. there is no more blood, but that damned liquid. he is faint now, his body sways. his is drunk on his sadness, gasping for air—

—he falls, his body splashing in the river.

his skin still leaks that liquid of red, of white and mixed substance. it taints the water, his body bobbing along the stream. "blood!" the mortals scream in panic, their hearts rapid, eyes widen by such a horrific sight. "blood! blood! someone get an ambulance!"

the screams fill his ears. he is of consciousness: slipping and falling, tumbling—just as he did when he fell from olympus. there is a burn about his skin, a paleness in his face. water fills his lungs steadily, drowsing his hair in flecks of tears. it is the same colour as wine: so deep, so dark, so red.

he is almost gone. he knows this, feels it in his immortal soul. blonde hair disrupts his peace: blonde hair, tanned skin, eyes green as the fresh summer grass. is it her, or is it an angel? perhaps death blinds him—he does not know.

his eyes close.

there is no more wine.